Writer of fantasy and other fictions

Category Archives: Not about books

Colder weather makes me want to bake. This year, that urge resulted in an apple pie. But I can’t just leave it there. I need embellishments. Like cranberries. And ginger. And a classic Pennsylvania crumb topping (cribbed from the cookbook I grew up with, The Mennonite Community Cookbook)

The pie was a big hit when I took it to a dinner on Sunday night, and a couple of people have asked for the recipe. So if crisp weather also makes you break out the measuring cups, give it a try.

Apple Cranberry Ginger Crumb Pie

One 9-inch pie crustYou’re on your own with this. Use store bought, your favorite recipe, etc. Mine was half-butter, half-Crisco.

The Apples:I used “SweeTango” because they had 4-lb bags at Sam’s Club and they looked like a good idea. They’re a cross between Honeycrisp and Zestar (which I’ve also never heard of.) They worked well in the pie, and were delicious for crunching up while peeling. You can probably also use Honeycrisp, Fuji, Pink Lady, Jonagold, or any other crisp, flavorful apple. You may not need the whole bag. I had one apple left over, and probably ate another while peeling.

The Filling: Slice apples thinly and cut slices in half. Toss in a large, non-reactive bowl with the lemon juice, cranberries, and minced ginger.

In a separate bowl, mix the flour, cornstarch, sugar, spices, and salt. Sprinkle flour mixture over fruit and toss to combine.

Assembly: Lightly grease pie plate and fit with crust, trimming edges and pressing down with the tines of a fork. Prick the bottom of the crust all over.

Pack apples into pie shell, mounding high. If you’re strategic and place the apples in a handful at a time, they will (almost) all fit. You may choose not to add all of the juice that has collected at the bottom of the apple bowl if it seems like too much.

Sprinkle the crumb topping evenly over the apples. Press lightly to firm.

Bake: Put the pie plate on a foil-covered baking sheet in the middle or lower-middle oven rack. Bake at 425F for 20 minutes. Reduce heat to 350F and continue baking for 40-50 minutes. Watch the crumb topping for over-browning during the last 20-30 minutes, and cover with foil if necessary.

Back home after six mind-blowing, indescribable weeks at Clarion West in Seattle, and it’s time for some changes to the blog. Not sure what kind of changes yet, all kinds of ideas swarming around in the head, but definitely a mandate to read more short stories, and I expect I’ll be talking about them here.

The octopus is a cephalopod. Wikipedia says that “Cephalodpod” means “head-feet”. It is also fun to say.

I am thinking about the octopus because it is neat. It very awesomely looks like this.

Lynda Barry uses an octopus. A lot. It is cuddly, maybe, when she draws it. In her pictures it seems to stand for the “I don’t know” that is the un-heart of creative activity. The octopus does not know, but that is okay. Is it an octopus because it changes shape, because it lives in the murky dark, because it has so many arms? I don’t know. It seems the right kind of mysterious.

In Gail Carriger’s, ‘Parasol Protectorate’, a brass octopus is the symbol of the evil scientists who want to do Wrong Things with Technology.

I cannot remember seeing a real octopus in real life. In the Natural History Museum in the Smithsonian, there used to be a case with the remains of a giant squid. I remember a case of water, with its white flesh arms, sort of pulpy and disintegrating. I remember thinking it was sad. Maybe I don’t remember right – if it was already dead, why would they keep it in water? Does anyone else remember this? It was in the front rotunda, somewhere near the doors, along with Henry.

A few months ago, I wanted to write a story called “The Secret Heart of the Octopus.” I don’t know what that means. Saying those words, knowing those words, makes me feel good in the way walking in the woods makes me feel, the way seeing a the disappearing tail of a salamander makes me feel, the way the Big Dipper is always there at night when I walk the dog makes me feel. It is a good feeling, and it is potent. Waiting. I am small, in a good way. The secret heart of the octopus is very big.

First was the IUWC, which involved early morning classes, afternoon workshops, evening readings, lots and lots and lots of manuscript reading, and regular mortgage-paying, catfood-buying work somewhere in between. My story was discussed on the only day when there were 3 people on the schedule (other days were just 2) which made me a bit cranky, but my workshop leader Manuel Munoz was kind enough to discuss my piece one-on-one afterwards, and that’s where I got the good idea for revision. It’s a big idea and it’s going to involve ripping out huge, essential chunks of the narrative but I’m so sure it’s right that I’m almost excited to do it.

The best part about the conference is geeking out with other writers, and this year was no different. I got to know some local writers better, and met some cool new ones. I’m always canvassing for new members for my regular writing group, so at times I feel like I’m doing a PBS fund drive without the free coffee mugs and Michael Flatley DVD. Julia Glass was completely hysterical at the final night’s readings — not what she read, but the stories she told beforehand. British writers are mean to American writers, apparently.

After that it was jet-setting away to NYC for green-tea margaritas (sounds appalling, actually delicious), riverside walks in the pouring rain, and chole bhatura on Oak Tree Road (drool). I even saw the crazy clouds in Manhattan on Friday night. They looked like low-hanging cotton balls, round and individual, textured and full of weight. Everybody was stopping in the street and taking pictures up between the buildings with their phones.

'Mammatus clouds over Manhattan' by bears rock/flickr

Now that I’ve had enough adventure in two weeks for the whole year, I’m going to go to sleep.